


The Nightly Newshawk

by missmollyetc



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson could have been a hotel-dick, with a cushy seat and a numb brain, but it was one of those nights, when the case ran cold, and the reporter came in hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nightly Newshawk

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](http://aliassmith.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**aliassmith**](http://aliassmith.dreamwidth.org/), who [posted](http://aliassmith.livejournal.com/48897.html?thread=506113#t506113) _amazing_ noir-ish photos on her LJ and then ~~hideously enabled me~~ asked nicely for me to write her a Noir!Au, and well, here we are!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to [dira](http://dira.dreamdwith.org), [fleurdeliser](http://fleurdeliser.livejournal.com), and [leupagus](http://leupagus.dreamwidth.org) for their support and patience. ::grins::

The clock had called it quits with midnight and stepped out with three am by the time Coulson managed to drag his carcass back to his office. A solid day's worth of shoving a missing heir's picture in the mug of every barfly, union breaker, and dip in Manhattan, and nothing to show for it, but a headache. Mrs. Odinson's baby boy wasn't going home anytime soon, that was for certain. After meeting the family, Coulson might've bought the kid a train ticket out of town himself, but their money was good and green, even if the pack of them were stunted and icy blue. Five thousand plus expenses bought a hell of a lot of headache powder, and the black label Jack to chase it down with.

The green baize blind was drawn on the glass inset in his front door, no light peeping around its worn corners, but the handle moved too easily under his hand. Coulson paused, halfway over the threshold. Darcy always locked up when she went home, and he'd ordered her pert ass out of the office when it finally dawned on him that the pretty brunette 'dolly' Alderman Odinson had dismissed was actually the pretty brunette mastermind behind her and dear Thor’s escape. He reached underneath his wrinkled suit jacket for his revolver, wrapping his hand around the butt.

A voice called out, amused with a hint of a rumble. "You hoping for a clean sneak?"

Barton. He heard the snap of the lights come on. Coulson sighed, and dropped his hand from his piece. He pushed through into his own damn waiting room, and found Clinton Francis Barton: Intrepid Reporter lounging with his feet up on Darcy's desk.

"What brings _The Daily Tattle_ to my door at this time of night?" he asked, making a show of giving Barton his back as he closed and locked the front door.

Barton laughed behind him, like a scratch on a blues record. "A highbinder like Odinson calls in my favorite gumshoe, and you gotta ask me questions like that? Doll, you must've been holding up the bar at that gin mill on seventh, instead of earning your big, fat retainer."

Coulson pressed his right hand flat against his door, and took a slow breath. "What makes you think I wasn't?" he asked.

He heard Barton get up, the doubled smack of his feet on the wooden floor, and the squeak of Darcy's chair. He turned around just as Barton turned the corner on the side of the desk closest to him. Barton's light brown hair was out of its usual stiff curve; his collar was open at the neck, blue tie askew. He jumped the low fence Coulson'd hammered together to keep the rabble out of Darcy's skirt, and came down on the other side, smirking. Coulson swallowed; he was always behind the eight ball with Barton, like a fool and his money before the long farewell.

"Phil Coulson not have a case? Perish the thought," Barton said. "A couple of little birds told me."

Phil glanced to his left at the closed door to his inner office. "More like a spider," he said, and flicked his eyes to the covered windows lining his back wall.

Barton shrugged. "Natasha doesn't run that hash house 'cause she likes the food."

He raised his hands, thick-knuckled like a prize fighter, long fingers dingy with ink. Coulson tensed, raising his chin. He'd hauled Barton out of enough dust ups to know his calluses followed through on their promise. He'd have made a hell of a hatchetman, if he didn't get his kicks dragging men’s' reputations into the gutter rather than their bodies. Barton stepped forward, close enough that the light from overheard shone down at the tension lines crinkling his eyes. He reached out and removed Coulson’s drenched fedora by the crown, tossing it towards Darcy’s desk. Coulson watched it tumble end over end and land brim down on the blotter.

"Let me take your flogger," Cl—Barton said, sliding his voice low, as if they were any more than what they were. He curled his hands around the lapels of Coulson's trench coat, and slowly peeled it open across his chest. Coulson stiffened his shoulders, trying to ignore the way his lungs suddenly needed a bigger scoop of air, while Barton curled the corners of his mouth up, biting the lush center of his bottom lip. "Your shoulders are all wet."

"It was raining," Coulson said, cursing the way his breath sighed out of him as Barton nudged him out of his coat. Barton radiated heat, and the smell of the good single malt Coulson kept in the filing cabinet near his inner door rode his breath.

"I heard," Barton said, quirking one eyebrow. "It rattled the windows."

"I'd like—" Coulson cut his voice out at the knees, slamming his pie hole shut.

"Yeah?" Barton tilted his head, smirk opening up to show his teeth.

Coulson pushed Barton out of his way, snatching his trench as he passed. "It's a confidential lay," he said. "You know I don't wring out other people's dirty laundry."

Barton chuckled behind him, and Coulson clenched his jaw. The bastard was watching him walk away, he could feel it, like Barton was playing a blue movie off the back of his white shirt.

"That's what you have me for," Barton said, footsteps following him across the floor. "You sort 'em out, I knock 'em down."

Coulson opened the door to his personal office—also unlocked, damn it—and stepped through, closing the door in Barton's face. Barton made a wounded noise, and caught the wood with both palms, before walking in right on Coulson's heels.

"I am three seconds from giving you the bum's rush, Barton," he said, quick stepping around to his chair.

He tossed his coat at the hat rack in the corner, and refused to care if it survived the trip or not. Putting a foot or two of executive-grade desk between him and Barton would do wonders for his blood pressure. He sat down in a protest of old springs, and sighed, working at the tight knot of his tie. Barton came to rest against the short side of the desk, fine grey pants pulling tight across his thighs, and leaned over, putting one hand down for balance, to switch on the desk lamp. He pursed his lips, tanned skin turned golden in the lamplight, and watched while Phil dug his deck of Pall Malls out of his desk, and smacked out a stick.

"You're a pip, you know that, Phil?" Barton said, crossing his arms and drawing the thin cotton tightly across his biceps. "You think I came here just to bump gums about a lost prince?"

Coulson's mouth dried out. He pushed his rolling chair back from the desk, trying to maintain some distance. Christ, but Barton could play him like a mook, and he knew it. He'd plucked Coulson's strings a thousand nights, and sent the goods to Old Nick at the _Tattle_ like a good little imp every time, but the sight of Barton’s lean body and the—the way he talked to Coulson, calling him ‘Phil,’ when not even _he_ did himself anymore—still made his blood pump harder than if he was under fire. A man had his pride, though, and an extra century in the pot to ensure his reputation for discretion.

"Maybe you should just be jake with knowing a stand-up guy like me," he said.

He raised his eyebrows, tucking his cigarette into the corner of his mouth, and started scrounging for his lighter. Barton laughed, and shook his head.

"Now where'd you get the idea that I liked you standing up?" he asked.

"Three seconds," Coulson reminded him, patting down his own shirtfront. His mouth was dry, palms a little too warm against his chest. "Where the..."

Barton sighed, head dipping low for a moment. Coulson paused, caught by the way the muscles in his stomach flexed as Barton stood away from the desk. He reached into his left front pocket, and fished out a zippo. He held it up to the light, just long enough for Coulson to see the engraved _P.C._ beneath the scratches on its face, and then flicked the top open.

"One," Barton said, leaning down into Coulson's space and striking the flint wheel.

The lighter flared to life, a tiny little flame angling towards the cigarette between Coulson's lips. Up close, he could smell the remains of Barton's pomade, the acrid tang of ink that never seemed to leave his skin, and feel the rush of his breath. Coulson swallowed, and lipped his cigarette forward in his mouth.

"Two."

Barton lit the end of Coulson's butt. Coulson breathed in, sucking smoke as Barton went to his knees, fitting himself between Coulson's thighs. The lighter flicked off, cover closing over the chimney, and Barton tossed it to the side. Dimly, Coulson heard it clatter onto his desk. He looked down at Barton, lips parted, and tried to remember to breathe. He gripped the shaky armrests of his chair, and Barton—Clint, _Clint_ bent his neck, and licked a path along the outline of Coulson's cock where it pressed against his flies. He put his mouth against Coulson's belt buckle, sucking at the metal, and nuzzled into his stomach. His right hand curled around Coulson's ankle, thumb rubbing circles around the bone. Coulson fought not to close his eyes, to curl around Clint's back and give in like he wanted to, like he always wanted to. His hips bucked, and Clint rested his head on his thigh, eyes on Coulson’s face. He reached up and plucked the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers, tracing the shivering crease of Coulson's lips.

"Three," he said.

Coulson swallowed, and shook his head. Clint grinned, and took a drag. He blew smoke up Coulson's chest in a slow wave, carefully pursing his mouth, and God knew Coulson wanted inside there, wanted—always wanted—Clint any way he could have him. He watched his own hand detach from the armrest, watched his thumb glide over the teeth marks in Clint's lower lip and past those pearly whites. Clint's mouth closed, his tongue twirled up to Coulson's nail as he sucked, slow and steady, the sound timed to the ragged crash of Coulson's breath in his chest.

"I...if this is a chisel," he said, shaking beneath the earthquake of his heartbeat. His fingers curled beneath Clint's jaw, palm cupping his chin. "It's old—old hat."

Clint raised his eyebrows, and drew off, kissing the tip of Coulson's thumb. He nuzzled against Coulson's palm, smiling. "Call it for credit," he said, and the lamplight threw halos in his pale eyes. "I'll run a tab."

Coulson shook his head, and swallowed heavily. "You know your money's no good here," he said.

Clint held the cigarette up over his head until Coulson unanchored his left hand from the armrest, and took it from him. He pinched it between his forefinger and thumb, and let his arm fall back to its former position. Clint pressed his free hand against Coulson's chest, slipping in between the buttons to his undershirt. His fingers tapped a counterpoint to Coulson's heartbeat. Coulson tightened his grip on Clint's chin, tilting his entire head up; smoke wafted into his eyes.

Clint shook free, hair falling across his forehead, and let go of Coulson's ankle to open his flies one-handed. Coulson let his head fall back, the nape of his neck resting against his chair, as Clint pulled his cock out. He gripped him by the base and kissed the tip, pushing the tight ring of his mouth down Coulson's shaft, and caressing the underside vein with the whole length of his tongue. Coulson gasped at the ceiling, hips rolling in the chair, hard enough that the springs shrieked in outrage. Clint sucked him down slowly, like Clint knew Coulson liked it, like they had all the time in the world, a wealth of fuzzy nights and lazy mornings. As if the taste of cigarette smoke in Coulson's mouth wasn't as sour as the smudges of typewriter ink Clint left on his shirt. Coulson clenched his free hand into a fist, pressing a shaky knuckle into Clint's neck. Clint's own hand lay heavily against Coulson's chest, as hot a brand as the slick heat of his mouth.

Coulson shook, the clamor in his head as noisy as his chair's springs, and Clint moaned, sinking down farther. Clint opened his throat for Coulson's cock, lips brushing his own knuckles. He let go and rolled Coulson's balls in his clever fingers. Coulson arched his back. His free hand spasmed open, and fell into the dense, sweaty hair at the back of Clint's head. Clint hummed, shifting at the border of Coulson's vision. He couldn't look, didn't dare lift his head to see Clint open his own pants and fist his hard, leaking cock. The same cock he'd held in his hand in that alley behind the Broderick, when he'd replaced the mark on Clint's neck with his own, larger and harder to hide beneath his shirt collar, and Clint had laughed. Coulson squeezed his eyes closed, and didn't imagine Clint's hips jerking into Coulson’s touch, the muscle he'd dug his nails into. The way Clint had whimpered, noises Coulson had memorized the instant he'd heard them. The way they'd seemed to rip themselves free from Clint's lips and how he'd replaced them with questions about the Rogers disappearance, and then the Stark burglary, the Hill Annulment, and then the Barnes murder. How he came, and Coulson gave every time.

Clint shuddered, and Coulson realized he'd gripped the back of his head, holding Clint in place and driving his cock into Clint's open mouth. But he only groaned, angling into Coulson's grasp, and—he had to look, had to know. Coulson raised his head, skin burning, breath coming like a bellows beneath the weight of Clint's hand on his chest, and looked down. Clint stared back at him, blue eyes practically glowing in the lamplight, mouth a wide, wet red curve around Coulson’s cock, and the flush of his cheeks blew Coulson down to the ground. He groaned, head tipping back up, arching for balance, and tried to bury himself alive. The cigarette crumpled to the floor as Coulson grabbed for Clint's pumping shoulders. He held on while Clint fell apart beneath him, felt his mouth go tight and then slack as Clint swallowed and pulled off, burying his face in Coulson's thigh and shivering himself to a standstill.

They breathed together for a moment. Coulson rubbed his fingertips in the short strands of hair at Clint's nape, counting down the minutes of peace, when he could think of Clint as Clint and mean it; when he could imagine a paradise where he answered to Phil. Eventually, Clint leaned back on his heels, and Coulson's hands dropped to his lap. He tucked himself away, doing up his flies, while Clint did the same. Coulson swallowed, watching as Clint picked up the fallen cigarette. He put it out on his leather watchband, and spit on the fallen ash to be safe. He held up the used butt, and Coulson took it from him, pitching it into the ashtray he never remembered to clean on his desk. He rubbed his hands on his knees, and met Clint's eyes, always watching.

"What do you want?" he asked, forcing the words out of his aching throat. He'd been in the rain all day; probably coming down with a fever.

"What does any good reporter want, Phil?" Clint asked, never looking away.

He leaned up, sliding his chest against Coulson's until their mouths were a hairsbreadth apart. Coulson shook his head an inch back and forth; to go farther would have killed him.

"Unlimited access," Clint breathed, and kissed him.

 

 

 


End file.
